The Violin of Ruin and Favour
by CelCastillo
Summary: Three years after the Fall and Sherlock comes back. During that time, John had learned to play the violin. Sherlock/John
1. Part One

"Brother-mine, where is my violin? And my sheet music, for that matter…"

Mycroft watched with an air of carefully detached interest as his brother walked around his now uninhibited flat. "Your John Watson took them with him when he left."

"What would he do that for?"

"To learn, of course."

"Yes, but _why_?"

"My best guess would be that it was the only way he felt close to you, brother-mine. Perhaps you should pay a visit. He has done little else in the past three years expect play. Even I must admit he had gotten quite good."

"Why haven't I heard about this before?"

"You never asked." Mycroft took a deep breath. "He's at the clinic today, recently got a job there in the past year. When he gets home he sometimes eats and then spends at least an hour playing before he moves on to something else." Mycroft moved ever closer to the exit of the flat.

"When will I be able to return?" His mess of a younger brother didn't spare him a glance as he opened the door, much too preoccupied staring at the space that his violin and music stand normally occupied.

"Give me three days, Sherlock, and then make contact. If I were you, I would be expecting mixed reactions from all parties. You know that this lie will not go smoothly, with John especially."

"Yes, yes. I am aware. Go and stop a war, Mycroft. Keep with the diet, it's been doing you good. Or is that just the new goldfish in your life?"

Mycroft could feel the smirk from the doorway. This was in jest and he heard the silent _thank you_ anyhow. "Good day, brother." _You're welcome_.

Sherlock followed his brother's advice that night. He stood in the hallway outside of John's flat: a dismal place really, and listened. When he heard the first couple of notes, at first he was shocked by how right his brother was. John _was_ good. Then he recognised the piece.

It had been the only thing that had kept him sane in the past three years. Between the streets, torture, and starvation, that was the one thing that reminded him of what he could come home to. It was John's song; or rather, the song he had been composing about John. It had been mentally working on it for three years, itching to put it down on sheet music. That had been the first thing he'd done, actually, as soon as he came back. After a shower, of course. To hear it being played, not just in his head but out loud by _John_ -

It was too much. He could feel the emotions that he poured into it seep back out through the notes and under the doorway. He could feel the longing and admiration that he put into it repeat itself to him as despair, grief, and melancholy.

He sat in the hallway and listened. He listened to the parts that John had added, smoothly integrating his own notes as to create a fluid transition to his own, individual contribution to the piece. His was about him, Sherlock. He felt the rush of the chase, the love of the game, and the wistfulness of what had been. The notes fell sharply, dangerously, almost expertly. It was all masterfully done. This had to have been the piece that John played the most.

The song faded and Sherlock was overcome with what should have been and what finally could be if he made himself know. As it was, he heeded his brother's plea and left, unnoticed. He walked back to 221B and started mentally adjusting what he added while he had been away with what he had just heard. It could be a beautiful duet, he realised, if John would have him after this.

There was really only one way to find out, wasn't there?

* * *

It was John's day off. He got up, limped into the kitchen, made tea and toast, and skimmed over the news. When the tea got cold and the toast too soggy with jam, John went over to the music stand and shuffled through Sherlock's composition. He had found it when he took the violin and Sherlock's binder of sheet music. After all, what good is a violin if it wasn't played?

The composition had been in its own folder, with nothing but 'John' written on the top of the first page. After he had brushed up on his own skill of reading it, he had made sure he could work the bow without making anyone's ear bleed- he had made sure he could play it as close to a professional as possible, and then he added his own notes to it.

(He never played with a mute, unless it was late at night when he either couldn't sleep or woke up sweating, his swallowed screams making his throat raw.)

It took him a solid two years before he worked up the courage to change what Sherlock had made. After he had gotten a grip on 'John', he had started working on his own piece and named it 'Sherlock'. In his mind, it was always an extension to 'John'. Neither one of them sounded right without the other awhile now. He slowly started to add bits of 'Sherlock' into the ending of 'John', and turned it into almost something of a dance. John kept beats open where Sherlock could have played, skipped over notes that should have had someone else stringing them along.

This morning, the sheets were not how he had left them.

They were stacked neatly into a pile next to the stand with a sticky note on top of them.

 _Sherlock Holmes and John Watson_.

He could never mistake that handwriting.

With his hand as steady as it had been in three years, he pulled off the sticky note and dared to hope. If this was Sherlock, there would be only one way to answer.

John set up the sheets, skimmed over them, and started playing.

It started off how it always did. He could feel his entrance into Bart's lab, the last night at the bedsit, the first chase and lost cane. He felt the emotion of having someone kill for you. Someone who you had known for less than 72 hours. He felt the hope of a possible friendship with another person. He was carried along with the notes as they swelled with hopefulness and pride. It was in the music, how guilty Sherlock felt, after trying to drug him. Then the music picked up again; not as happy and hopeful as it was before, but more resigned. Sherlock had let himself accept the fact of _something_ that John could still not name.

He was so lost in the music that he almost missed the gentle entrance of a second violin moments before what he had understood as the months before the Fall, the slow pace of knowing the betrayal that Sherlock had known was going to take place. The pace sped up as it got closer and closer to the end. He understood. He had made this duet and he knew what his part was.

His part in this was to lead. He was in charge of how this was to work. He made the adjustments, he would set the perimeters. Sherlock would know how to follow, how to anticipate the pattern of his chords.

John played by himself for most of 'John'; and as the pace sped up as it got closer and closer to the end, it was here, where John had added a sharp crescendo. He made one final swipe across the strings, and Sherlock, because who _else_ could it be, took control of John's piece about him. He followed along, giving it a quiet undertone, adding in the notes that Sherlock left out. They played together and when John got to the last page, he saw that more had been added.

When the other, still unseen violin, didn't pause, John played the music in front of him. It was soft and clement. The answering piece that Sherlock played was forbearing and humble, full of sorrow. It sounded as if he was breaking, ruins of emotion cracking under indescribable anguish and heartache. There were moments during the quiet that sharp, shrill note rang out. It called out to John's piece, begging for the kindness and support it so desperately was in need of.

With the aide of John, he could feel the music building upon itself, mending what had been too exhausted and defeated to go on its own. The melody built up, their chorus sonorous until they both slowly withdrew.

As the last note slowly faded out, John felt more whole than he had in three, long years. He gave the last sheet of music one last, long look, noting that it looked unfinished, before dropping his arm and bow down to his side.

Still vibrating with symphonious of the music, John turned around. As he had hoped, Sherlock was standing there, violin and bow hanging limply at his side. He looked the same as he did when he jumped that horrible, unforgiving day at Bart's.

He looked disconsolate, and now that John had moved closer, he could see how tired he must have been. His hair was longer and he wouldn't meet John's eyes, almost huddled into himself as if he expected John to hit him or to yell abuse.

It was the fear of being rejected that had Sherlock carefully slide into his piece. It was the possibility that he could have been turned away and done with that kept Sherlock at arm's length.

With his eyes burning and jaw clenched to keep the shaking sobs silent, John put his violin and bow down. He closed the distance between them, forgetting his cane, and gently pried the violin and bow that Sherlock was holding and put it down on the coffee table next to him.

John looked up and raised a now shaking hand to Sherlock's face. His thumb brushed a cheekbone. He wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him down into a tight hug, afraid to let him go lest he disappear.

Sherlock returned the hug with an equal amount of force, each man with their face buried into the other's neck.

"You utter bastard." John's voice was hoarse, rough with unshed tears.

"I know, John. God, I know." Sherlock kept his voice low, his own concealed tears threatening to spill over. "I am _so_ sorry. I am _so very very_ sorry."

"It's alright, Sherlock. It's going to be okay. It'll all be okay. It has to be alright."


	2. Part Two

"So, you have questions."

John's smile was sad. His left hand was wrapped around a mug of tea while he was running his thumb over the pads on the fingers of his right. It took only three months from the time he started playing for the calluses to form. Now, with the amount that he's played, it was comforting feeling of rough along his fingers.

"Where have you been? Why did you lie? I have a lot of questions, Sherlock. Not many will be easy to answer."

Sherlock took a deep breath, cataloguing their appearances. His eyes must have matched John's red-rimmed ones. His lip was busted and his cheek had a cut that looked like it would scar.

He imagined that their exhaustion mirrored each other's as well.

There were many ways that he could have responded to John's angry, resigned questions and statement. He only had the energy to say: "I know."

* * *

"Hello, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh, John! It's so good to see you here again, dear. I was starting to worry you wouldn't show up. I should never have doubted you."

"Where else would I go?"

"I don't know dear, and that's what worried me. Sherlock's upstairs, probably already knows it's you. Is that all you brought?" The elderly landlady gestured to the two old duffle bags in one hand and the violin case in the other.

"It's all I had worth bringing," His smile was self-deprecating. He had left most of his stuff at their flat when he left.

"Well, go on up. Keep the yelling to a minimum, for now, at least."

"Will do, Mrs Hudson."

John made his way up the well-worn 17 steps and stopped outside of the living room. The door had been left opened and Sherlock was sitting in the middle of the floor between their two chairs. He was cross-legged and in his dressing gown. John was shocked to see how normal everything looked. It was as if neither of them had ever left.

"I didn't think you were actually going to come." Sherlock stood up with way more grace than any regular person.

"Why wouldn't I?" John cocked his head and stepped over the threshold, his chest loosening.

"I suppose I thought that you were still mad at me. Possibly hate me. Meet someone, moved on. The list is endless."

"Of course I'm still pissed, you git. Doesn't change that I care about you. And me? Meet someone? In what, three days? How could I have ever moved on from you in the first place?" John scoffed. And then winced. That sounded a lot more sad and pathetic than he had meant it to. It was also too close to the truth. "You do want me here, right? I'm not overstepping my bounds?"

"The question is, I think, do you want to stay?"

John gave Sherlock a soft smile. "I wouldn't be anywhere else." John stepped into the living room and slowly turned around. Even Sherlock's violin was out and the skull on the mantle.

"I believe it was Mycroft, to answer your question. He kept the with the payments after… well, After."

John made a noise of affirmation, ignoring the comment about what happened for now. Instead, he looked down at his watch. It was late. Ish. "How about we go out for dinner tonight? Angelo's? If you haven't already eaten, that is."

"No, I haven't. Angelo's sounds perfect. He's already aware of my return, so I hope he shouldn't cause too much of a scene."

"I'm guessing you aren't already public knowledge, though?"

"When I am, we won't be able to leave the flat for a week, at least. Lestrade already knows, too."

John nodded. "Mind if I go put my stuff in my room?" He held up the arm carrying the duffel bags.

Sherlock didn't say anything about the amount of John's measly belongings, just a simple "Of course," and John was up the steps and out of the suffocating formality that sprung up between them. God, Sherlock trying to make any type of small talk was a nightmare in itself.

They walked to Angelo's, both of them quiet. They walked close together, closer together than they had Before. John couldn't bring himself to care if it meant he was able to physically ascertain that Sherlock was actually here and real.

They entered Angelo's and took their usual spot by the window. Angelo brought out a candle with a wink, saying nothing about Sherlock's and John's return. Neither one of them said anything about the candle.

John also didn't comment on how much Sherlock was eating when they got their food (it was what used to be their usuals, Before. Before Sherlock fell and John cut off ties to the outside world). He was eating like he just finished a week long case; putting as much food as he deemed reasonably polite while doing his best to look disinterested in the food.

When Sherlock wasn't shoving his face full of food, he was rattling off deductions about the other diners, just loud enough that John could hear him if he was almost pressed up against Sherlock's side, head bent down. He hid his laughs in his napkin and once or twice almost choked on his food. It was nice. It was normal. It felt painful.

It was almost like Before. This time, however, John could see the effect Sherlock's time away had on him. He was twitchy, more so than usual, his eyes never settled on a single spot for more than several seconds at a time.

John didn't say anything when he saw Sherlock flinch at a loud noise from the kitchen, or how he grimaced when he tried to push his back against the seat. John watched as Sherlock tried to resist the urge to look over his shoulder to the street, and John did his damnedest not to draw a conclusion without more data. All he had was a busted lip and a cut cheek.

Because this is painful. It _hurts_. The time away, Before Sherlock and After Sherlock, and it's something else. It's present it's undeniably _there_. This pain, this bittersweet emotion is yelling at him, screaming at him hoarse that none of this is real. That John can't have this. He's cracked and _something_ happened, but this isn't it. John doesn't deserve a second chance, it tells him. John is useless, unneeded and unwanted. If Sherlock really came back, what would he want with John? What would be the point? What does John contribute? What good comes out of caring, it questions. John couldn't even talk down his one _true_ friend from a rooftop. What happens when Sherlock leaves again? It's screaming again, saying that if Sherlock did it once, he can do it again. Sherlock doesn't care about him, he can't. Those things don't happen to John because John doesn't live in a fairy tale. Even if he did, John knows he wouldn't be the good guy.

He fell in love with the person who matters most. He mourned him, was still mourning him. He wrote him music and cried and sobbed and came so close to just…Well, to just following Sherlock to where John had thought him to be.

That thought makes John want to rage. He wonders what Sherlock would have done if John really did make that decision.

They have a lot to talk about. Too much that bears thinking right now. He didn't want to ruin a perfectly good night. It was so long since John's had one.

When they get home, John thinks. When they get home.


	3. Part Three

John stood in the entryway while Sherlock swirled into their flat, trying to make himself look busy.

"Sherlock," John said. Sherlock paused and turned around. "Let me see your back."

"What? Why?" His eyebrows were pulled together. He probably thought his confusion would mask his fear.

"I need to make sure you're alright." Sherlock gave him a dubious look. "I saw how you held yourself in the restaurant, how you mentally mapped out the floorplan. I know the look you made when you went through the quickest escape route. I saw how much it hurt you to keep at least part of your back to the street because I used to do the same thing, Sherlock. I still do, from time to time. I know from watching you and listening to the music that something happened. So just… let me see your back."

"Great! So while I was gone you suddenly grew some brain cells and learned how to finally observe! Do you feel special, now? Was that whole spiel just to show how much you 'cared'? Do you think that gives you some special right to know what happened? Why act like you're concerned about what happened?"

"Because, Sherlock, I do actually care! Did you understand nothing of the music that I wrote!? I'm your friend, Sherlock! And I like to think, even after these horrible years, that I still am! I may be right pissed but that doesn't mean that your emotional and physical state aren't of any concern to me." John's voice took a steel edge to it. "After what I've gone through, it's in your best interests to not accuse me of not caring about you."

Sherlock visibly swallowed and started unbuttoning his shirt. He didn't meet John's eyes and his hands shook. John stepped forward and clasped Sherlock's hands in his. "I just want to make sure you're okay. If you can look me in the eye and tell me that you aren't in pain, I'll let it drop. If you can tell me that yes, you are hurt, but it's been taken care of, then I'll let you be. Now, are you hurt?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked toward John's before dropping with his hands. He gave a sharp nod and took a deep breath before settling his chin on his chest.

John finished unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, more worried than before. If Sherlock could control his hands, then it couldn't be anything good.

John grimaced when he saw Sherlock's chest and he looked up to see if Sherlock had caught his expression. His eyes were closed.

John lightly wrapped his left hand around Sherlock's right wrist as he moved around to his back. "Mind if you slip it off?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and the shirt dropped to just below his elbows. The sight that John was met with was not unlike a battlefield.

His back was covered in slashes and cuts and burns. Some of them looked very, very recent while others seemed several years old. His back still had stitches and bruising was especially concentrated on his sides. It looked as though cigarettes were put out consistently on the back of his shoulders and low neck.

The slashes and cuts overlapped, wounds that had healed uncleaned, and several slashes looked like they had been opened up recently. The freshest one looked barely a week old.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John breathed out. "They people who did this to you… are they… are they dead?"

Sherlock nodded his head.

John lightly ran his free hand over a mark that had already scarred. "These need to be cleaned. Would you rather that be done in here or the bathroom?"

"Can you clean them in your room?"

"Sure, of course. My kit's with my stuff anyway," John didn't let go of Sherlock's wrist after taking his pulse again. Instead, he had to lightly tug to get Sherlock moving and up the stairs. He seemed calm, a bit pissed, but calm. His heart, however, was racing. Scared, then, was John's conclusion.

John, unfortunately, had to let go to let Sherlock take off his shirt. "Lay down on your stomach, if you can. It would make this easier if you could."

Sherlock didn't respond, instead, he did as John had instructed him to. "You're okay with this, right Sherlock? I don't want to make anything worse."

"I trust you, John. Completely." His voice was steady.

"Even now?"

"Especially now."

John swallowed down the threat of tears as he opened up his kit. He got out the needed materials and climbed up onto his bed. He knelt beside Sherlock and started on the open wounds. Thankfully they hardly bleeding. "None of your stitches were torn open. How long did they keep you in the hospital?"

"They didn't."

"Then who took care of you, then?"

"Mycroft's doctors. After I was flown home. I rested for a couple of days."

"And why don't I believe you? Absolutely stubborn, you are. You need to be careful."

Sherlock made a 'hum' of acknowledgement and they fell into a companionable silence. After John was finished cleaning his back, he started dabbing antibacterial onto the wounds. "What kind of pain medications did the doctors give you?"

"They didn't. Mycroft's orders, I suppose. I still wasn't completely lucid during that time, if I'm to be honest."

"Sherlock," John's voice cracked. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

"There's nothing for you to apologise for, John. I made my own decisions. I should be the one apologising."

"It doesn't really matter, does it? How long did they torture you, Sherlock? What have you been doing for three years? Where have you been? Can you answer any of that?" John swallowed. "Why didn't you take me with you?"

"They had me for three weeks before Mycroft could get me out. They weren't the first ones that captured me, just the most brutal. The others, I had let myself be captured to get information. I usually had a way out. Siberia… that's where I was for most of those three weeks. For the past three years; everywhere. I've been everywhere. Everything I did was for you, John. All of it. Lestrade and Mrs Hudson may have been threatened, but it was because of you that I came back."

"What do you mean we were threatened?"

"Moriarty had snipers on all three of you. It was either kill myself or…."

"Or we were killed." John finished for him.

"And I couldn't take you because that would just be selfish of me. What if you had gotten hurt, killed, because of me? I couldn't tell you that I was alive without putting you in danger. I couldn't have watched you die, John."

"I almost did, Sherlock. I don't think you realise that. After you were gone, I thought that I had failed as a friend. I thought, 'What was the point? I'm useless. Can't even talk down his best friend from a rooftop'. It wouldn't have been hard to fake my death. I don't think you would have had to watch me die, Sherlock, because wouldn't have been there if I did." John started on dressing the slashes. "I can't stress what your death did to me, Sherlock. I don't think I ever will. I don't think you can appreciate just how close to the edge I was."

"John…"

"Don't. Just. Sit up. I need to wrap this around your chest."

Sherlock pushed himself up and sat with his feet under his legs and John leant forward on his knees, wrapping the gauze around his chest.

"Why did they torture you, Sherlock? What could you have possibly gained from letting all these people capture you and hurt you?"

"It was to save you, John. I told you. It was all for you. Every lash, burn, cut. Every broken rib and blackened eye. I did it so I could find the man who was supposed to put a bullet through your heart and put one through his. I am worth nothing, without you, John Watson. There is nothing that wouldn't do, that I didn't do, to save you. To protect you."

"Sherlock Holmes. I always wondered why I wasn't enough. 'Why couldn't you just be enough?' I asked myself that, wondering what worth I really had. I was no one, without you. I was just a bumbling fool with a shoddy leg. You Fell and I broke without you because without you there is no me. You were gone and I didn't know how to get back up because that's what you were always there for. You were there to tell me to get over myself and go and get some milk. Or you were the one who already had a mug of tea for me after a nightmare. Now, when I sleep, I don't dream of Afghanistan. I dream of you Falling. Then I dream of you being happy, of both of us being happy. I dream that you're back and I'm living a full life and…"

John closed both hands around Sherlock's wrists and both men had found themselves drawn closer together, and neither of them cared that their cheeks were wet and that their voices shook. "And if I wake up and find out these past couple of days have all been a dream I won't survive." John bowed his head.

"But… why?" Sherlock question. He sounded as torn up as John himself felt.

"Can't you deduce it, Sherlock?" John looked up, vision blurred and voice weak. "Can't you just see?"

"Oh, John…"

John shut his eyes as a new wave of tears spilt over, readying himself for a sure rejection. He felt his heart stop and stomach contract as Sherlock moved his hands, in what John thought was an attempt to distance himself. He let go of his wrists and was shocked when his face was cradled in two large hands, thumbs brushing his cheeks.

"Why do you think I risked coming back, John? How could I be anything without you?" Sherlock's voice was strangled and John sobbed as Sherlock pulled him into a hug. They clung onto each other as they cried, their faces buried into the other's neck and shoulder for the second time that week. "I'll never leave, John. Never again. Neither one of us could survive it for a second time."

* * *

Sherlock bolted up from the bed, fighting with sheets, before remembering where he was. His eyes swept the room for confirmation that this was, in fact, John's room. They must've fallen asleep while holding each other… last night, a quick look at a clock showed. The space that John had occupied was still a little warm, so it couldn't have been too long ago that he had left the room.

The sound of a violin answered Sherlock's question as to what woke him up. He silently walked out of John's room and sat on the bottom step, just listening to John playing. He had gotten to be a pretty decent player in only three years, Sherlock thought.

The piece sounded sad, miserable, with a light undertone to it. As it steadily grew lighter, happier, Sherlock stood up and walked into the living room. John was facing the fireplace and his eyes were closed. Sherlock watched his change in expressions in the mirror as more and more was added to the piece. He was watched as John's fingers flew across the strings with the bow and he felt heavy. He felt incomplete.

As John's playing slowed, became sadder, empty, Sherlock moved in front of John and waited until the last stroke of the bow faded out before saying anything.

"What was that?" He asked as John's arms fell to his side.

"It's what loving you felt like." Sherlock's breath caught as John's eyes met his. "I'm hoping it's going to need to be revised."

Sherlock stepped closer, afraid. What if he said something wrong? Something horrible? Isn't this the place where he says something comforting?

"Where did you get the violin?" He stuck to something he deemed safe.

"Your brother and a second-hand shop."

Sherlock waited to see if John was going to elaborate as his eyes flicked to John's lips and back up to his eyes. There was a slight smirk. John saw that, then. "May I?" He asked.

"Yes," John said, breathless, and Sherlock curled his hand under John's jaw as bent his head and brushed against John's lips.

"This is okay?" He whispered, for no logical reason except that this was something that needed to be handled carefully. He needed to be sure. He needed to make sure that he wasn't making a mistake, that they both wanted this.

"Yes, Sherlock. It's fine, it's good. It's perfect, actually," Sherlock watched a ghost of smile appear on John's face as he whispered and broke into a smile of his own before pressing his lips completely against John's.

No, he knew that it was not going to be easy, but since when has anything between them been easy? Easy was boring anyway, he reasoned. That's why he had John.


	4. During the Time Away

John's phone buzzed for the 14th time in his pocket that afternoon. The funeral was horrible. He hadn't wanted to go back to a flat where there was no Sherlock, so he decided that a walk through London was a good idea. That was five hours ago. His hand was sore from holding the cane and both his shoulder and legs were stiff.

He thought that he could escape in between the buildings and people (escape the Fall and the silence and the gun that was waiting for him at home).

He was wrong.

One could only hide in London if that one was Sherlock Holmes. John Watson had walked into a trap and couldn't make his way out of it. He wasn't relieved when the next buzz of his phone was accompanied with a black car inching its way next to him. Instead of climbing into that chamber, he walked into the nearest shop. All that was needed, he thought, to go with the jingle of the bell, was the sound of rain against the shop window.

"Good evening, sir. Is there anything I can help you with?"

John did a quick scan of the shop and spoke to the young woman behind the counter. "I don't think so, right now. Thank you."

She smiled before going back to her computer.

John walked further into the store, one that was dedicated to a vast array of instruments, before stopping in front of the violins. He felt the now constant pain and heartache give a bit of a throb at the familiar instruments. There wasn't even a reaction when he looked at the price tags. He did, however, take out his phone when it buzzed again.

 **Whatever you decide will be paid for.**

 **\- MH**

 **The offer also includes lessons.**

 **\- MH**

John pocketed the phone again and limped to the counter. "On second thought, do you think you could point me in the right direction for a violin?"

"Of course!" She smiled brightly. "Now, are you picking one out for yourself or someone else? If they're a beginner, we also provide lessons during the week."

John felt a ghost of a smile and listened attentively to every syllable that was spoken to him. After all, this was more or less a tribute to Sherlock. He couldn't disappoint him in death.

Six months later and John could play without making anyone in the general vicinity want to cut off their ears. Another two months and John dropped lessons altogether and started on playing what was in Sherlock's binder.

John knew that this couldn't be a permanent solution, no matter how well it worked when there was music. Because when John played, he could pretend, just for a little while, that all was good. For as long as his bow was being pulled across his strings, he could pretend that he still wanted to live. He could pretend that he wasn't empty, that he wasn't lacking empathy. Just for bursts of time, he could pretend that he was okay.

John woke up, breathing hard, and tears already falling down his face. He stumbled out of bed to his violin and readied the bow. He blinked furiously several times to no avail. He thought, _fuck it_ , and played, eyesight be damned. He played and played and played and hoped for the impossible. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, if he played hard enough, well enough, put enough emotions into it, one of two things will happen. Either Sherlock comes back or the emotions stay with the music long after the last note has faded.

The problem with emotions leaving with the music is that he'd have none left to love Sherlock Holmes, and that is a nightmare unto itself.

Three years after the Fall, after that fateful day of walking into a music shop, and this is where John finds himself. After sleepless nights and bleeding, aching, fingers and tear-crusted eyes, and John is here.

John is back home, at 221B Baker St, lying in bed with one Sherlock Holmes, after a violin duet, and John had never felt so whole or so alive. 

* * *

_A/N:_

 _Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed! Reviews and favs give me life. :)_


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